Between Love and Lies

"Get your hands off me, you devil in human incarnate " Sharon forcefully dragged her hands off Michael's finger "How do you feel, bastard, not today Michael, you will not touch me until you get rid of that infection" "How dare you talk to me in that manner, I am your husband and I would have you when I choose to" Sharon immediately rushed to the petite kitchen and locked the wooden door. "It's just a wooden door little brat, I get what I want, when I want it, fool!" Michael burst out of the compound. The old saw from last week’s carpentry was still by the shed. He snatched it, charged back inside, and went at the kitchen door. Cut. Cut. Cut. Sharon’s breath caught. She grabbed a knife from the counter and pressed herself behind the door. Michael managed to break through the door and Sharon became more terrified and hid the knife at her back. "I told you I will have you today, calmly walk to the bedroom and undress, or do you want it forcefully?, you will definitely bleed profusely" "Don't come any step closer, you animal!, stay far away from me" She said taking some steps backwards as Michael took same step forward. She continued backwards till she got to the white painted wall and stood. Michael reached out and tried to grab her arm, his fingers clamping down hard around her wrist. In that same instant, Sharon reacted without thinking. She drove the knife straight into his left thigh. "Let go of me, Michael," she said, her voice shaking but loud enough to cut through the sound of the saw still on the floor. The shock registered on Michael’s face first, then the pain. His grip went slack and he staggered backward, collapsing onto the cold kitchen tiles. He pressed both hands against the wound as blood began to seep between his fingers, and a low groan escaped him, long and strained. "Oh my goodness, what have I done" She bent low and touched the wound, she got more terrified "Michael! Michael!" She kept on calling him while he was lying lifeless on the floor "Knock! Knock!" A sound came directly from the entrance door, everywhere became calm, Sharon quietly tiptoed and peeped through the window. It was Valerie. "Thank goodness it's Valerie " She rushed to the door and opened it swiftly and hugged Valerie "What's happening Sharon, your number hasn't been reachable and why are you panting " "It's... It's.. Michael" she stammered "Ohh okay.... " "Michael..." She pointed towards the kitchen "Michael again! Did he...." "Wait... Don't tell me he tried forcing himself on you again, where is he and why are your hands stained with blood" Sharon kept mute and it felt like she was traumatized "Wait... What have you done, Sharon" she queried "Where is he" Valerie moved calmly to the direction of the kitchen, she first saw the broken wooden door, turned back and looked at Sharon in confusion, again she sighted the saw and then she smelt blood. Turning to her right, Michael was lying lifeless in a pool of blood, she bent down and touched his pulse. Terrified, Valerie rushed out of the kitchen "Sharon! What have you done, let's take him to the hospital, he is still breathing" "How are we supposed to do that, I will definitely be brought to the bar and I don't want to be in jail" "Com'on girl, he is not dead, it would be worse if he dies here, I warned you countless times to leave this thing called marriage, well, this is not the time for blame, go get a cab" Sharon didn’t move. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, wide and glassy, like she was watching the whole thing happen again. The knife was still in her hand, the tip dark and wet. “Sharon!” Valerie snapped, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Drop that. Now.” The knife clattered against the tile. Sharon flinched at the sound like it was a gunshot. “Listen to me,” Valerie said, lowering her voice, trying to sound calmer than she felt. “He’s breathing. Barely. If we get him to St. Luke’s right now, he might live. If he dies here, you’re not looking at assault anymore. You’re looking at murder. Do you understand?” Sharon finally looked up. Her lips moved, but no sound came out at first. Then, a whisper “He... he wouldn’t stop. I told him to stop, Val. Like every other time.” “I know,” Valerie said She’d seen the bruises Sharon tried to hide with long sleeves in this heat. “And we’ll deal with all of that. Later. But right now, you need to help me save him so you can save yourself.” That got through. Something flickered in Sharon’s face, not relief, but purpose. She nodded once, sharp and jerky. “Good. Get me two clean towels and your wrapper. We need to slow the bleeding.” Sharon moved like she was underwater, but she moved. She disappeared down the hallway and came back with the towels and a faded ankara wrapper. Valerie was already kneeling beside Michael, pressing the first towel hard against his thigh. The blood was warm, soaking through too fast. “Here,” Valerie said, taking the wrapper. She tied it tight above the wound, using the saw’s handle to twist it into a makeshift tourniquet. Michael let out a weak, animal sound but didn’t open his eyes. “Is he...?” Sharon asked, her voice small. “Still with us. Go! get a Cab. Now. Don’t explain. Just say it’s an emergency and give them the gate fee upfront so they don’t ask questions.” Sharon hesitated at the broken kitchen door, looking at Michael one last time. Not with pity. Not with hate. Just... empty. “I’ll be outside,” she mumbled, and then she was gone, her bare feet slapping against the compound floor. Valerie stayed on her knees, keeping pressure on the wound, listening to Michael’s ragged breathing and the distant sound of Sharon begging a driver. The smell of iron and sawdust filled the kitchen. The broken door hung off one hinge, like a mouth open in a silent scream. She looked down at Michael’s face. This was the man Sharon had prayed for, cooked for, borne pain for. The same man who had turned their home into a place where knives lived on counters for more than cooking. “Sirens,” Valerie muttered to herself, though there were none. Just the neighbor’s generator and her own pulse in her ears. “We need sirens.” Headlights swept across the cracked kitchen wall. Sharon burst back in. “He’s here! He’ll help!” Together, they half-dragged, half-carried Michael’s dead weight through the shattered doorway. He was bigger than both of them, and twice they almost dropped him. Blood drew a dark, smeared line from the kitchen to the compound. The taxi driver, an old man with tired eyes, took one look and started praying under his breath. But he popped the boot and helped them load Michael into the backseat. “St. Luke’s,” Valerie ordered, sliding in beside him and keeping her hand clamped on the tourniquet. "And drive like your own son is dying.” Sharon climbed in the front, still mute, still stained. As the car pulled away, she finally turned and looked back at the house. No one said a word. The only sound was the taxi’s engine, Michael’s wet breathing, and Sharon’s breath finally starting to slow down. They were close to the hospital when Michael’s breathing changed. It went from ragged to heavy, wet and fast, like each breath was costing him more than the last. “Calm down, Michael, we are almost there. Hang on, babe,” Sharon whispered, one hand hovering over his chest but not touching him. The word 'babe' slipped out before she could stop it. Old habit. Old nightmare. Then she snapped her head toward Valerie, panic finally breaking through the numbness. “He is breathing too fast. Is he going to die?”